


Alameda

by kashicanhaz



Series: Look At Me [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, modern! AU, sansan ever after
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-20
Updated: 2013-04-21
Packaged: 2017-12-09 01:00:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/768141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kashicanhaz/pseuds/kashicanhaz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tyrion shows up less than a month after his family's law suit is settled, bringing with him divorce papers and a mess of trouble for Sandor.<br/>Title comes from a song by Elliott Smith by the same name.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Milkshakes

Slimy fucker that he was, he turned up less than a month after the court proceedings for the Ironthrone Group were through.  Wearing that twisted little smirk of his, he showed up on their doorstep one Saturday afternoon with a briefcase in hand, uninvited, like the flaming bag of dog shit that he was. 

“Tyrion!” Sansa chirped, always the one to answer the door when she was home.  Sandor’s head snapped around from where he’d been sat on the couch, perfectly content up until that moment.

“Miss Sansa,” he said primly, his arrogance dissonant in Sandor’s ears.  “Looking lovely as usual...goodness, Clegane!  My, what a surprise,” he remarked, shocked as Sandor shot to his feet, rushing to Sansa’s side and snaking an arm around her waist possessively. 

_I might be ugly as sin and she might be your wife on paper, but she’s **my** fucking girl, you shit.  Don’t you have a single doubt about it._

 “Feeling’s mutual,” he snarled.  “What do you want?”

 “Charming as ever, Clegane,” the Imp said with a sour little smile.  “May I come in?” he pointedly asked Sansa.

“Depends on your answer,” Sandor barked, talking over her affirmation. “What do you fucking _want,_ Imp?”

“Sandor, stop it!” Sansa hissed under her breath, bristling at his demeanour.  He only tugged her harder to his chest in reply, standing firm.  She sighed.  “Of course you can _come in,_ Tyrion,” she said, pointedly growling up at Sandor, elbowing him in the ribs to try and get him to take a step back.  Their eyes met, staring each other down for a long moment before he shuffled to the side, assenting.  He could deny her nothing, his little bird, but that didn’t mean he was happy about it.

The Imp waddled into their living room, proud as ever, over to the armchair and sprung up into it.  Clenching his fists, Sandor followed Sansa over to the couch and sat down next to her, opposite of the Imp so he could keep an eye on him.

“Can I get you something to drink?  We’ve got Sprite, I think, and orange juice...or a cup of coffee?” 

“I’m fine, thank you,” the Imp replied, meeting Sandor’s scrutinizing stare and holding it.  He felt the hairs raise on the back of his neck, smelling a challenge.  “I won’t be here long.  I don’t mean to intrude.”

He scoffed outwardly at that; Sansa shot him a glare before turning her attention back to Tyrion.

“I just feel as though we have some business to conduct now that the curtain’s come down on my sister’s great farce.”

“If you think you’re getting _one cent_ of her—” Sandor started to growl at him, leaning forward, but Sansa threw him back into the couch with a slap of her hand on his chest.

“Watch yourself, dog; she might have to put you outside.”

“Careful what you say while you’re under _my_ roof, Imp.”

 “ _Nobody_ wants anything to drink?” she nearly shrieked, arms flung out as if to keep her balance as she looked between the two of them.  Sandor sighed, not backing down from his confrontational stare, but his war of wits with the Imp had come to a ceasefire under the scorn of the little bird.  She sat back, tucked a piece of hair behind her ear, and might have muttered to herself, “I could sure use one...”

“I think I’m gonna make a milkshake,” Sandor snarled after a moment, spinning off of the couch and stalking off to the kitchen, hauling the blender to the opposite counter so he could watch the Imp while he made it.  They exchanged pleasantries in the other room while he gathered his ingredients—milk, ice cream, extra dark cocoa powder...

“Well there’s no use beating around the bush,” the Imp said as Sandor pried open the ice cream, digging the scooper into it, frozen near solid, with an unnecessary ferocity.  “As lovely as you are, Miss Sansa, I think neither you nor I want to be married to one another.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” Sansa said, visibly sighing with relief.

“Me either,” Sandor growled to himself, dashing some of the extra cocoa in overzealously and dusting the whole counter with it before wrenching open the milk, spilling some, and dumping it into the blender too.

The Imp opened his briefcase and pulled out a yellow envelope, holding it out to Sansa.  “Our divorce papers, my dear.”

 _She’s not your **dear** , stunted prick..._Sandor slammed the top onto the blender and flicked it to its highest setting, drowning out the rest of their exchange; a minute or so passed, and the Imp pulled another couple sheets of paper from his briefcase and handed them to her, along with a few business cards, before Sandor remembered the milkshake, though he had the top of the blender in a death-grip.  He turned it off and wrenched the top up, turning to fetch a glass down from the cupboard as the Imp sprung out of the chair again, Sansa standing to follow him and see him to the door.

“As gracious as your hospitality has been, I’m afraid I’ve got a flight to catch.  I will see you in court, my dear,” he said, taking Sansa’s hand and kissing it.

Sandor almost broke the glass in his hand as he brought it down on the counter, making Sansa jump as her eyes and the Imp’s flew to him in surprise.  Returning the Imp’s scrutiny, he lifted the blender from its base and poured the mixture into the glass until it almost overflowed, paying it little attention.

“Good day, Clegane,” he said, voice laced with irony. 

Sansa shut the door after him with a hollow smile before turning her eyes on Sandor with a little sigh, holding up the yellow envelope and handful of papers she held.  “So much for a distraction-free rest of the semester.”

“If he ever comes back here I’m going to strangle him with his own guts,” Sandor grunted, picking up the glass and lifting it to his lips.

“He was as good to me as he could have been, Sandor, I’ve told you that a hundred times,” she pleaded, rounding the countertop and rubbing her palm between his shoulder blades to calm him.  It almost worked.

“Doesn’t make me hate him any less,” he sneered, swallowing and wiping his mouth on the back of his wrist.

“Well it should,” Sansa pouted, slipping her arms around his waist and leaning her head on his shoulder, the way she knew would break his resolve.  So he changed the subject.

“So what’s this about court, little bird?”

“Oh, yeah.  There was no prenup, so things are going to be a little...complicated.  But I’ve faith that he’ll treat me with just as much respect as he did while we were married.”

Sandor almost snorted his milkshake out his nose.  “Are you fucking _kidding_ me?”  He put the glass down on the counter and turned to face her.  “Sansa, he’s broke!  His whole family’s been ruined by this trial, but suing you for divorce could be a way out of that ruin for him.”

She pressed her lips into a hard line and looked down at her feet.  “I just...I’ve got more faith in him than that.”

“Well you’re alone in your faith then, little bird,” he sneered, turning back to the counter and picking up his milkshake again.

She was silent for a minute while he drank.

“I’ll ask my pre-law professors about any divorce lawyers they know.  Alumni, maybe.  Someone really smart.”

“Do whatever you have to.  Just don’t let him have anything he doesn’t deserve from you, little bird,” Sandor choked, sighing at the defeated look on her face.  “Come here,” he said, opening his arms.  _I’m sorry I’m so angry,_ stuck in his throat, so he said as much with a kiss, pouring himself into the movement of his lips on hers for a liquid minute before she slipped down and held him tightly, letting him rest his chin on the crown of her head.

“Sandor?”

“Yeah, little bird?”

“Please tell me you’ll clean the kitchen before I make dinner.”

He turned around, suddenly aware of the mess he’d made—chocolate powder, splashes of milk and little bits of melting ice cream speckled the countertops and the floor.  He hung his head in embarrassment.

“Sorry.”

She gave him a sheepish smile.  “Don’t be.  I know you were angry.” She got up onto her tiptoes to kiss him again.  “How can I convince you that you’ve got nothing to worry about, I wonder?” she smiled against his lips, a playful lilt sneaking into her voice as she slipped her fingers up under the hem of his shirt, scraping her fingernails against the trail of hair that disappeared into the waistband of his jeans.

“I’ve got an idea, I think...” he growled happily, taking her by the waist and carrying her to their bed.


	2. Sir Harrold Hardyng, Esquire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor finally meets Sansa's divorce lawyer.

“Whatever she had to” meant Wednesday afternoon meetings with a rather _expensive_ partner at Arryn  & Arryn family lawyers by the name of Harrold Hardyng, whose father had clearly been drunk while penning his birth certificate, Sandor thought.  Sansa’s reports of him were positive enough, so he had little disdain for the guy until he saw him in action at Sansa’s divorce trial, reviling the bleach-blonde bastard from the moment he laid eyes on him.  He hated his handsome face and easy smile, his obviously expensive suit and watch and cufflinks, but most of all Sandor hated the way the lawyer looked at _his_ little bird, eyes lingering where they shouldn’t, his smiles too quick, too suggestive.  He felt a familiar heat in his blood, knuckles clenching, his muscles straining in the sleeves of his dress shirt.

Sansa introduced him as her boyfriend (and proudly, too; _fuck me sideways_ ) and Sandor extended a hand like she’d told him he should.  Hardyng’s grip was weak in his, obviously sizing him up before looking to the burned side of his face and betraying a flicker of horror before giving Sandor a slimy smile.

“Nice to meet you, Mister...?”

“Clegane,” Sandor grunted, dropping the lawyer’s hand to take up Sansa’s.  She shuffled closer to him, letting him put a hand around her waist.  He watched the lawyer’s baby blues flick to where his fingers were spread out on her side, his frown only perceivable to one who was looking for it, before he looked back up to Sansa, and then Sandor, with a pasted-on smile.

The Imp walked into the courtroom then, and Sansa, courteous as ever, departed to greet him, leaving Sandor and the lawyer in a stare-down.

“Sansa hasn’t mentioned you before,” Hardyng said, eyeing him carefully.

He set aside the pang in his chest, saving it for later.  “Didn’t think a pretty girl like her could be single, did you?” Sandor laughed darkly.

“No, I didn’t,” Hardyng agreed, “but it’s easier to believe than her being with you.”

Sandor’s face fell into a vicious glare and the prick regarded him smugly.  _You can’t rip his throat out.  He’s going to protect Sansa.  He wants the same thing as you._

Sansa returned to them then and Hardyng wrenched his eyes from Sandor’s to fall on her figure with brightness, lingering in places Sandor wanted to hit him for.  _All the same things, apparently._

The prick did right by her though; even in the height of his jealous ire Sandor couldn’t deny that.  Tyrion didn’t get a cent, the lawyers jig-sawing their accounts apart attentively until Sansa was left with all she was due.  By the end of the afternoon, even Sandor was grateful.

That was, until the lawyer started making eyes at her again in the lobby of the legal building, his little bird all but oblivious to it.  _That must be the way all guys look at her,_ he realized, veins flooding with another white-hot stab of jealousy that made his little bird wince in his grip as he crushed her hand in his.  Her eyes flicked up to him questioningly, one eyebrow raised, but he set his jaw and shook his head.  _I’ll explain later_ , he thought.

“Miss Sansa,” the lawyer said before them, pointedly ignoring him, “if you’re free anytime this week, I’d like to buy you a drink to celebrate our success.”

“Oh, um...” she bit her lip as Sandor crunched his hand around hers, shooting him a momentary glare before responding.  “I might be.  Can I call your work number if I decide I’m game?”

A fire was building in his veins unlike the ones she usually built, feeling more akin to the fires that marred his face.  He thought about throttling the lawyer then and there...but no, it wouldn’t be enough.  He wanted to sink his knuckles into Hardyng’s pretty face and get his fingers cut and bloodied against his square white teeth...

“Here, have my cell.  Do let me know, Sansa,” he said, a light southern drawl colouring his speech, _probably adding to his charm...does that make you wet, Sansa?_

She took the card with his cell phone number graciously before spinning on her heel, leading Sandor from the lobby.  He shot one last look over his shoulder at the lawyer before following her to the car.

“Good God, Sandor,” she hissed, wrenching her hand from his as soon as they were back in Stranger.

“Sorry, little—” he tried to apologize as he thrust the key into the ignition, but she was having none of it.

“You know, just because another guy is helping me out doesn’t mean he’s got designs on me.  He’s a lawyer, he’s supposed to be charming.”

“Since when does ‘charming’ mean looking at you like you’re a fucking piece of meat?” he snarled, meeting her eyes narrowed in anger before urging the car back out of the parking space.

“I didn’t find anything wrong with how he was looking at me,” she huffed.

“Yeah,” he gave a snort of derision, “well you wouldn’t have been able to see it anyway.”

“If I haven’t got a problem with it, what does it matter?” she nearly shrieked.  “I mean— _fuck_ , Sandor, quit being so possessive!”

Her words hit him like a brick to the stomach.  “If you had a face like mine and a girl like you, Sansa, you would be too.”

She rolled her eyes.  “Shut _up_ about your fucking face already!”   _Shit.  She’s really mad.  She’s cursed twice in the last minute.  Fuck.  Fuck.  Backpedal.  Fuck._ She turned her face to him again and he swallowed reverently.  Never had he known her face to hold such fury.  He was in for it.

 _You’re in the doghouse now,_ some voice in his head quipped.

“Every other guy I’ve ever been with has tried to possess me in some way,” she started, her voice musical in its viciousness, a melody that would grate him apart.  “Petyr, Joffrey, _fuck,_ even my _father..._ ”  _Please stop swearing, little bird.  I can fix it if you let me.  Please.  Please.  Fuck._   She sat in the passenger’s seat with her arms crossed, jaw set and shaking her head.  “I thought you were different,” she whispered, accusing, and then, “take me back to my dorm.”

“Fuck, Sansa, I’m sorry—”

“Take me back to my dorm.”

“Please, can’t we talk about this?  It’s only Saturday...”

“I won’t ask again.  Do I have to walk?” she hissed.  “Or, even better, I’ll go back into the building.  I’ll bet Harry’ll give me a ride.”

“Sansa, _stop it,_ ” he hissed, raising his voice against her for the first time in the year they’d been together.  She did, thankfully, frozen in the heat of his glare as he had been in hers.  They stared each other down for a minute, his anger simmering back down to a boiling regret.  She shied away from the stare first.

“I think we need some time to cool down,” she murmured, sheepish.

“If you’re sure,” he hummed in defeat.

“I am,” she responded, quick and forceful.

The ride across town was silent.  She sat with her arms crossed tight, staring through the windshield.  If she stole glances at him like he did at her, he didn’t catch her at it.  _I have monumentally fucked up,_ he thought to himself.  **_Fuck_** _I want a drink.  Fuck.  Fuck.  Fuck._

“Have a good weekend,” she chirped on route as she got out of the car in front of her dorm at Loyola.  He could not withhold the rasping, derisive laugh that called her attention back to him before she managed to close the door.  “What?” she snapped.

“ _’Have a good weekend?’_   How could I _possibly_ have a good weekend anymore, little bird?”

She chewed on that for a moment.  “Thanks for the ride back,” she continued to chirp, and then, “thank you for respecting my choice.”

“You should know better than to think I’d do any different by now,” he spat back, putting Stranger back into gear and reaching across to shut her door.

She looked stunned in the rear-view mirror as he left her behind.


	3. A Long Ride Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's two-and-a-half hours from Loyola to the Grand Isle.

His anger dried up halfway through his ride home, leaving him with half a mind to whip Stranger around on a dime and find some way—any way—to make it up to her then and there.  He considered buying a florist out of stock, making some giant sign that begged her forgiveness or finding a radio to pull a Lloyd Dobbler on her...but Sansa had said she wanted space, and he wouldn’t go sniffing around her again until she invited him back into it.

But what did that leave him to do until she did?  Battle to keep his sobriety, most like, with little else to occupy him on that desolate island they called home.  He didn’t trust going for a swim without Sansa around, even though he was a decent swimmer on his own...

He could call the Elder Brother, he supposed.  Maybe there was a game on TV, or a car to fix, something masculine to do as a ruse to get the preacher alone and divulge to him his problems.  They could kill time and drink milkshakes and keep him from looking at his phone every five minutes.  He didn’t want to play the pathetic golden retriever, sitting and whimpering on the welcome mat, waiting for his mistress to return.

Except was that his phone ringing now?  He was just crossing the Mississippi on the I-310, not half an hour after dropping her off.  Surely it wasn’t...

“Hello?”

“You picked up.” She sounded relieved, her voice foggy with probable tears.

“You called.”

“...”

“...”

“...Can you come back and get me?”

He sighed, fighting the urge to laugh or comfort her.  The burned corner of his mouth twitched.  “I’ll be there in twenty, little bird.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

“Hey, Sandor?” she interjected, probably thinking he was going to hang up.

“Hmm?”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know little bird.  Me too.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

After another moment of palpable hesitation she hung up the phone.  He knew that wasn’t the end of it—Sansa liked to exhaust herself in analysing their conflicts, whenever they fought.  She insisted it would keep them from fighting about the same thing twice, and so far in their relationship she had been right.  Fights were seldom occurrences and hardly ever serious between them, more like spats really, sparked by misunderstandings and foul moods.  Each one felt like the end of his world, though, and he’d be lying if he said each one didn’t scare him to death.

Sandor made frightening time back to her dorm at Loyola, but she was perched on a bench waiting for him all the same.  The streetlight in its oppressing yellow dulled her hair to bronze, hanging in soft damp waves over her shoulders.  She’d changed into one of his shirts and a pair of jeans, a borrowed hoodie hanging over her arms.  Looking up with a wan smile as he pulled up, he saw that she’d taken off her makeup and her eyes were rimmed red.  He hated himself for that, making her cry.  He hated himself for thinking she was beautiful when she cried, too.

She stood as the car rolled up, and he leaned across the console to open her door for her from the inside.  His little bird bit her lip and smiled, trying to hold a fresh wave of tears back, before she climbed into the cab, across the seat and flung her arms around his shoulders.

“I’m _sorry_ I’m _sorry_ I’m _sorry_ —”

“It’s alright, little bird, you’re alright—”

“No, it’s _not_ alright!  I was horrible to you, I shouldn’t have said any of that!” she cried from his neck.  “I wasn’t giving any thought to how you must feel, and...like...instead of _talking_ about my issues like a normal person I just threw them all at you and accused you of things you weren’t doing because I... _I don’t even know,_ and—”

“Hey, wait,” he said, pulling her wrists around his neck to make her lean back so he could look at her, face red and screwed up in shame, blue eyes so wide, and so blue.  “If you’ve got an issue with how I’m behaving, then this is all my fault.  I’ll agree that there are...better ways to tell me you’ve got a problem, but little bird, I—”

“No, _you_ wait.  You always try to take the blame for our fights, Sandor, and that just isn’t fair.  I’ve got shit too.  If you don’t ever let me be wrong then I can’t learn from my mistakes.”  She took a breath, giving him an opportunity to refute her like he usually would, but if he was being (selfishly) honest with himself, he knew she was right this time. “You were only doing what you normally do.  You’re always looking out for me with other guys.  I think I had an issue with the show you were making of it, but when I slow myself down to think, I can see where you were coming from.  It doesn’t mean I like it, but I can see where you’re coming from.”

She paused as he knit his fingers between hers, waiting.

“I...I shouldn’t have taken his number.  And I shouldn’t have said he would give me a ride if you didn’t, that was low.”

“It’s okay.  I forgive you.”

“Okay,” she said on an exhale, and he pulled her back into his arms, cradling her against his shoulders before she pulled away with a wide but sheepish smile.  “I don’t know about you, but I’m famished.”

“I could use a milkshake.”

She gave him a knowing little smile then, twisting to sit properly in the passenger’s seat without relinquishing his hand.

They hit a Denny’s before leaving the city behind, a comfortable silence falling in Stranger’s cab afterward.  There was little light on the roads once the suburbs were left behind, giving them a mostly uninterrupted view of the starlit sky.  Sansa would break the silence sometimes to raise their joined hands and pick out a constellation that she knew, or one she made up.  He liked those better, truth be told.  _Maybe I should tell her so._

He was pensive in the relieving aftermath of the spat, thumbing her knuckles absently and thinking about what _he_ could have done differently; whether she wanted to admit it or not, their conflict had been his fault as much as hers.  She hadn’t ever expressed explicit disdain for his jealous tendencies, so there was honest misunderstanding there...but his jealousy was innate, hardly a reflex he could simply turn off because it upset her.

But he didn’t want to upset her, either.

“...Can I say something?” He asked finally, nearly an hour left in their drive.

“Yeah,” she chirped, pulling their joined hands into her lap, “go ahead.”

He took a deep breath.  “I don’t want to be the last in line of all the guys who have treated you some way you don’t want to be treated,” he started.  “If I’m doing something wrong I want you to tell me before I make you really mad like I did today.”

She gave a sheepish little sigh.  “I’ll do my best.  Sometimes I don’t know something upsets me until I get really mad.”

“Well, can you try to keep a look out for any early signs, maybe?”

“I will Sandor,” she said, bringing his hand to her mouth to kiss his knuckles.  “I promise.”

There was a moment of silence while he tried to figure out how to say what he wanted to say next, a darkly satisfying idea taking root and blooming in his mind, but she interrupted his thoughts.

“Will you do the same?”

“Hmm?”

“I asked if you would do the same.  Like, tell me if I ever do anything wrong or anything.”

He blinked, biting back _everything you do is perfect, Sansa. You could never do anything wrong._   “Uh, yeah.  Okay.  I mean, you never have, but okay.”

“Don’t say that!  Now I feel fussy!” she whined.

“You’re not fussy, you’re just with someone who doesn’t deserve you.  You’re better at this than I am.  I’ll catch up, I’m just...” he spoke as the ideas occurred to him.  “We’re a work in progress, Sansa.”

“Yeah,” she said, coming to the same understanding herself.  “I guess we are.”

“And you know what?  That’s alright.  It’s a good thing, actually.  Because we’ll always be getting better for each other, if we’re a work in progress.  Trying to be better every day, than the day before.”

“Listen to you,” she smiled from beside him.  “If I didn’t know you better, I’d say you were modifying the renaissance concept of _virtu_ to suit your argument.”

“Brainiac,” he sneered.  “No more philosophy classes for you.”

She only giggled beside him in response.  _Perfect._

“Now,” he began, mirth edging into his voice cautiously, “on the topic of getting better:  I come by my jealousy honestly, Sansa.  You’re just so...I just can’t help it.  So we’re going to have to find a way to reconcile how I sometimes feel and how you want to be treated.”

“Alright,” she said.  He could see the wheels turning in her head, but he wasn’t finished.

“You said earlier that you don’t like me making such a show of my jealousy,” he said lowly, untangling his fingers from hers to spread his palm on her knee.

“Yeah, well...I mean, I just don’t want you, like, all confrontational when people are trying to be ni—”

“Shh, yeah, no, I understand what you want.  What I’m saying is...” he started to trail his hand up to her mid-thigh, fingers tracing the inseam of her jeans, “I was wondering if we might be able to compromise.  You don’t want me making a show of it in public, but...what about in _private_?”  He knew he was smirking now, a doggish grin twisting his features in a way he couldn’t believe she liked.

“I don’t follow,” she said, confused.  He had hoped she wouldn’t. 

“I’ve got a lot of... _energy_ that builds up when I get jealous, Sansa...I’ve got to find something to do with it.”  He cupped her upper thigh in his palm now, keeping his touch light and teasing.  He prodded at the apex of the inseam until it pressed into her flesh.

She exhaled as if she had been holding her breath.  “Oh...Kay.”

A chuckle rose low in his throat.  “That’s what I thought.”

Already the heat was spiking in his blood, but he forced it down to a smoulder, feeling his own jeans tighten as he smoothed his hand over any flesh of hers he could reach—slipping his palm over her hip, her waist, across her flat stomach, down under her ass, the underside of her thighs.  Pushing his fingers up under the wire in her bra (and drawing a very satisfying hiss of pleasure from the little bird) he noted there was still the better part of an hour left in the drive before he had her in his bed.

This was going to be a long ride home. 

She arched her back into his hand.  He didn’t mind a bit.


End file.
